3.4 – Unraveling the Riddles

Part III: The Plague
Chapter 4: Unraveling the Riddles
Location: Nektar’s Cauldron
Timeline: Sixth Age of Substance, 46th Year, Spring

The early evening hours of the following day found me curled up with a book in in a hidden nook inside the plush surroundings of The Cauldron’s Library, a rare sanctuary amidst the desolation of my obsidian citadel. Though I was here because my work demanded it, I couldn’t help but relax—the atmosphere of this room always provided me with a cozy feeling, a balm for my weary mind after the recent frustrations that had gnawed at my bones like a persistent plague. Outside, the ash-choked skies smothered any hint of spring’s warmth, the jagged peaks of my domain clawing at the heavens. But within these walls, the library offered a deceptive respite, its warm glow a stark contrast to the cold despair that permeated the rest of my kingdom.

Clothed in a luxurious new set of satin robes, the fabric shimmering like liquid night, I gathered the material around myself as I sat with my legs tucked beneath me in an oversized leather chair—stuffed with only the finest pazziera leaves smuggled from Arbola Forest. The chair’s softness enveloped me, the faint, earthy scent of the leaves mingling with the musty aroma of ancient parchment that filled the air. Occasionally, Derkka servants shuffled in to tend to my needs or maintain the library, their footsteps soft on the polished stone floor, their eyes averted from my skeletal form. For the most part, however, I was alone, the silence broken only by the crackle of the fire in the massive hearth at the room’s center, its flames casting dancing shadows across the walls.

Candles burned in controlled flames on sconces along the walls outside my nook, their golden light illuminating a humongous main room filled with wall-units and free-standing bookcases that easily held over a million books and scrolls from nigh every tongue and locale on the planet. I was an avid reader, thirsty for every scrap of knowledge anyone had ever taken the time to record, and this library was a testament to my insatiable hunger—a labyrinth of forbidden wisdom, its shelves groaning under the weight of tomes bound in leather, some rumored to be human skin, their spines etched with runes that whispered secrets in the flickering light. The air was heavy with the scent of aged paper and wax, a comforting contrast to the sulfurous miasma outside, and the faint echo of the damned’s wails from the citadel’s depths was muffled here, lending the library an almost serene quality—a deceptive peace that belied the horrors I orchestrated elsewhere.

So what was I reading on this occasion? Why, the newest addition to my library: The Diary of Arwin III, the last high-king of the Drrukka of Akka, brought back to me by the loyal—yet sadly now-dead—Viperz Aspus. Licking a bony finger—despite a lack of saliva, I had to make the effort worthwhile—I carefully turned another burnt page of the journal, the charred edges crumbling slightly under my touch, the faint smell of smoke rising as I did so. Despite the damage Gol’s foolish men had done to the book, I’d already deciphered quite a bit about what happened at Akka. Yet before reading further, I took a moment to piece together what I’d learned from my communal with Pesties the day before. [Reecall that Aspus had returned with a few bones of Pesties and thankfully it was an amount sufficient for me to use in The Necronomicon for a proper death communal]. I added Pesties Intel to what I’d gleaned from Arwin’s notes today.

As for my discussion with Pesties it had been a rather easy deathspeak session – for the spy had died less than a century past, and with the necessary bones to perform the rite, it didn’t take much effort to call his spirit back from the netherworld. The ritual had taken place in a darkened chamber deep within The Cauldron, the walls inscribed with necromantic sigils that pulsed with a sickly green glow. Pesties’ spirit had materialized before me, a shimmering, translucent figure, his snake-like features contorted with anguish, his voice a hollow echo that sent a chill through the air. At first, he was somewhat uncooperative, which I found interesting given that his spirit should have recognized me as his god—an observation I filed away for future research. He repeatedly begged me to release his soul back to whence it came, his pleas a tactic I’d witnessed many times before in the Necronomicon. Unfazed, I brushed away the snakeman’s entreaties and commanded him to tell me all he could about his last mission, my voice a low hiss that brooked no defiance.

Forced to comply, Pesties explained that about half a year after I’d sent him forth from The Cauldron, he had indeed reached the faraway Kingdom of Akka. As I listened to his tale, I shared in the spy’s early frustrations when he described his inability to find a way into the Drrukka stronghold without being seen, but my frustration turned to anger when he admitted he was “forced” to wait and watch for another two full seasons!

“How dare you waste my time with such negligent worries!” I had screamed at the apparition, my voice echoing off the chamber’s walls, the sigils flaring brighter with my rage. “Had I been there, you’d have found a way—I promise you that!”

Thankfully, the spirit’s next portion of the story not only calmed me down but actually excited me. Pesties recounted how he witnessed a small company of Drrukka entering Akka through a secret entrance—an unguarded portal through which the spy finally infiltrated the mountain stronghold. Eager to learn more, I let the Viperz continue his tale, only to be disappointed again by his ineptitude. The end of Pesties’ story was not about his success at releasing the plague I gave him—a plague that had indeed destroyed Akka, but apparently without Pesties ever knowing it—nor anything at all about discovering The Grim. Instead, he spoke of how, once inside the dark passageways of the mountain, he became hopelessly lost in some unused side cavern in the vast Drrukka catacombs. I listened in powerless disgust as the snakeman’s spirit described his fears and eventual acceptance of failure, a forlorn journey that led to his starvation and death—meaning that, as far as Pesties ever knew, he failed to complete his mission, for when he died, the precious vial of plague I’d entrusted him to deliver was still unused in the spy’s packs. What a useless joke!

To say I was not pleased would be an understatement.

Pesties’ effort was so utterly futile that I devised a new way to instill torment upon a soul. As I ended the communal, I used a bit of my hellfire, the flames licking at the air with a crimson glow, and bespoke a powerful curse upon the Viperz. I clove his being in half by reversing the original essence of his creation, separating the two halves of his existence and reverse-creating two Pesties—one a human, the other a snake. I then cast an additional spell that would cause the two Pesties to attempt to destroy each other for the rest of eternity—an impossible task, since their mortal coils were already dead, leaving only their indestructible spirits. The result was a self-torturing limbo that would last forever after, a fitting punishment for his failure.

“Ah, a mission doomed to failure,” I laughed when the task was finished, the necromantic sigils dimming as the ritual concluded. “Well, at least we’ve finally found something you’ll be good at, Pesties.”

Reflecting on it now as I sat in the library chair, a goblet of Amorosi Red in hand, its rich, ruby hue catching the candlelight, I knew I wouldn’t be in such good spirits if Pesties’ tale had been the entirety of the intelligence Aspus had given me. Thankfully, the latter had proven a more worthy spy than the former. Not only had Aspus succeeded in the mission I’d sent him on, but he’d also brought back concrete proof of Akka’s ultimate destruction by my plague.

It’s always nice to hear how one’s plans are a success, right? On top of that, I was now thoroughly enjoying a good book and a fine glass of wine—two of my favorite things in life. What could be better, neh?

I paused to ponder whether I had rewarded Aspus as well as I should have. Could it be that I should have bestowed a greater honor upon him? But no—for I had granted Aspus the greatest gift of all: I used him in one of my Life Lab experiments. No mortal could hope for a greater reward than that!

With my mind now at ease as far as my treatment of the snakeman was concerned—a task that was not all that difficult since I had no conscience to struggle with—I returned to my book and the words of Arwin III that had intrigued me so much these past few hours.

Despite the damage to the journal’s pages caused by the Derkka slaves’ barrelpit fires, I was able to cobble together scraps of information to build a story of what had happened. I learned that Arwin was the son of Ortwin VII, the high-king of Akka at the time of the Last Great War—a military campaign that my colleague Gwar had apparently initiated while I was last in Illusia. Though I was rather annoyed that Gwar had pursued such an action in my absence, I didn’t waste time on that now. Instead, I read with glee how Ortwin had made the wise decision to go into battle without The Grim, choosing to secure the dagger in a secret war chest in Akka’s Royal Armory rather than risk losing it to an enemy.

“A wise decision, cursed Ortwin!” I mocked the memory of the long-dead Drrukka warlord, my voice a low hiss that echoed softly in the library. “Yet I scoff at your efforts to keep my prize from me. For whether you lost it to my people during the war or not, surely you must know that I will acquire The Grim in the end—for that is MY destiny!”

I laughed as I read a chapter titled The Lamentation of Arwin, where the son wrote of the tragic death of his father Ortwin at the hands of a company of myz and Derkka warriors near the end of the Last Great War.

“Death was too good a reward for a rat like you, Ortwin,” I spat at the book, my skeletal fingers tightening around the goblet, the wine sloshing slightly. “Would that I ever get my hands on your remains—you would suffer to eat a more appropriate dessert for keeping The Grim from me for so long.” I quickly flipped through the pages about the Akka army’s return, Arwin’s coronation, and his proclamations to protect his people. “Blah, blah, blah. Who cares?” I muttered, feeling my anxiety starting to return, the warmth of the library suddenly feeling stifling as I feared that reading this journal might be another waste of time.

Thankfully, the next chapter mentioned Arwin’s joy in becoming the new Beholder of The Grim—yet even that didn’t calm my nerves. I couldn’t help but feel jealous of Arwin’s joy, and I feared my psyche was about to spiral down a dark road.

“A pox on you, Arwin, fool!” I snarled, but then I caught my unintended pun and laughter soon got the better of me, the sound a jagged edge in the library’s quiet. “Alas, Azazel old boy, you are just too intelligent for your own good! For a pox indeed is what I have delivered to Arwin and his worthless brethren at Akka!” Raising my glass, I toasted my cleverness, the firelight glinting off the goblet as I continued reading.

With pleasure, I learned that it was Arwin himself who ultimately proved to be the linchpin in my plan to deliver Pesties’ plague. Soon after the Drrukka army returned to Akka, Arwin wrote of how he ordered a complete search of every passageway in the mountain kingdom to ensure no enemies were hiding in their midst. I praised Arwin for his thoroughness, a rare moment of admiration, and couldn’t help but be impressed when I learned the search lasted nigh two whole years.

“Why, you little moles have built quite a network in those mountains, haven’t you?” I scoffed, refilling my goblet with Amorosi Red, the wine’s rich aroma a fleeting comfort against my rising anticipation.

What I read next filled me with delight! King Arwin told of a Drrukka soldier who came across the withered remains of an unidentified man—an outsider, now long dead—who’d apparently gotten lost in one of the abandoned side caverns near the northwest corner of the kingdom. While the curious soldier poked through the intruder’s remains, he found a small leather satchel, so decrepit that it crumbled apart when he picked it up, its contents spilling onto the stones at his feet. One of the items was a tiny glass vial that shattered upon impact with the hard hallway, expelling an unknown liquid that coated the ground. A bluish-green mist soon filled the air around him, and though he tried to back away, I knew it was too late—my lung-sac-seeking nebulae must surely have engulfed him! Only one further step was needed to spread the plague: the infected soldier had to interact with someone else—and I knew that step had been taken, since I was reading Arwin’s very words about the soldier’s dutiful report to his superiors.

“Ah, Pesties, you glorious fool—it seems you were successful after all!” I laughed, luxuriating in the comfort of my chair, the fire’s warmth seeping into my bones as I turned the page. “Ah, but I am a genius to have such a flexible plan. That hapless Drrukka came upon my Viperz, released my plague, exposed himself to my superbug, and then contaminated the rest of Akka when he carried himself and Pesties’ belongings back to the king’s court!”

Even better was the fortuitous luck that all of this had occurred in the middle of one of the most ferocious winters of the last century, forcing the Akka clans to remain inside their mountain stronghold while the elements raged outside. My virus thus spread like wildfire, exterminating those cursed vermin before the winter was nigh halfway over! I was gllad to see the extra step I took to add that <putrification> aroma to my plague actually worked—another successful experiment paying off! “

Azazel, my boy, you never cease to amaze me!” I toasted myself again, truly happy for the first time in many centuries, the library’s warmth a perfect cocoon for my triumph. “Hold on, friend,” I murmured, lowering my glass in a moment of sobriety, the candlelight casting long shadows across the room. “Perhaps I’m getting a little ahead of myself. For Arwin has not yet written of the complete death of his kingdom. Yes, Aspus said Akka is now a ghostly locale, but I’d like to read this Drrukka’s version to be certain.”

Once more, I began turning the pages of Arwin’s epic, the fire crackling softly as I delved deeper into his words.

Winter, second month, seventh day: We are doomed. I am now the Kon-Herr Drokka of a forsaken kingdom. Alas for Arwin the Third, son of mighty Ortwin the Seventh. There is naught I can do to save my people. The sickness has spread to all of us. My only sights are devastation and death. We cannot escape, nor do we have the means to call for help, for the winter storms have sealed us inside this mountain—soon this will be our tomb. Our medicines do not work. We have no answers. I, the Kon-Herr, can do nothing. What worth am I? Oh Rhokkii, my Rhokkii, why have you forsaken me?

Your ‘god’ Rhokkii has long since abandoned you, fool, I thought with a sneer. My plague was your just reward for matching your wits against me.

Winter, second month, eleventh day: We have lost most of our Drrokkia and children. The very reason we live. What can I do to stop this madness?

Nothing, I smirked, sipping my wine. Die and be done with it—that’s the best you can hope for.

Winter, second month, thirteenth day: We have stopped trying to bury our dead; there are just too many, and we lack the Drokka power to complete the task. The stench and smell are now stifling—this curse alone will kill us all.

That gruesome detail brought a smile to my skeletal face, my hellfire-glowing eyes glinting in the candlelight. The <putrification> aroma was a stroke of genius, indeed.

Winter, second month, eighteenth day: I buried my son today. I pray I die next.

So what are you waiting for? I thought, my voice a mocking whisper in the quiet library.

Winter, second month, twentieth day: This plague is worse than any nightmare. Why I have not fallen prey to its clutches yet, I cannot fathom, for I was one of the first to come in contact with Donner—our warder who discovered the dead man with the snake fangs. How long I can hold out, I do not know; does it even matter? Would that I could suffer this terrible death in exchange for our kingdom’s health. Yet, strength, Arwin, for you still have a duty to do. I will document the effects of this virus, so that future generations can identify it and hopefully better combat it should it haunt others again. [Oh, it will haunt future generations, and no, you can’t stop it, I thought with a dark chuckle]. Yea though, it is ghastly indeed! It is almost as if one who picks up this plague is being eaten alive from the inside out, for the victims seem to liquefy themselves to death! Oh, the horror to see these sights. I never knew a Drokka could lose so much blood. It starts harmlessly enough, for at first my doctors thought we only had a simple winter fluuk to deal with. Yet the chills and pains and vomiting do not subside. Instead, they amplify! Oh, then comes the blood, the red essence—it is everywhere. Donner was the worst of all—first he bloated up like a mushy peach, then he developed sores and hives all over his body. Days later, his scabs began to burst and slush out pus and sludge. Vile, oh so terrible! But worst of all was the blood! It came from everywhere on Donner; every orifice of his body oozed out his lifeforce; even his teeth and hair seemed to leak with it! Even now, I don’t know why Thork and the other healers were not able to stop the—[ARRRRRRW!! More howls of pain from my people! Rhokkii, can’t you make it end?] Ugh, where was I? Yes, Donner. For days on end, Donner bled himself out. His bloated body slowly shriveled as he lost his life fluids. He was literally turning to jelly. [Even my <jellification> additive trigger worked perfectly! I thought, impressed with my own brilliance]. His eyeballs leaked away their viscosity, and he was left with pools of white-red pus. His arms and legs did wither. And finally, finally (!) eight days after discovering the spy in our midst, Donner was the first to die. It has now been thirty-eight days since Donner passed, and more than three-quarters of my people have suffered a similar fate. Why won’t this plague take me too? Alas, I am not worthy of Kawkawzuz.

Winter, third month, ninth day: Few of us remain. Any hope of a rescue from the Spring visitors of Rhokkii Pass is now gone, for we cannot hold out that long. I estimate that the five of us still alive have but a week at most. I have but one mission left to complete. I pray that I did not wait too long to undertake the task, for it is important beyond compare. Yet, Arwin, how could you do this deed ‘fore now and abandon your people until you knew that all was lost? The answers do not matter. Nor do the questions. I must do what I must. As the Beholder of The Grim, I must protect it. Difficult decisions, just like my father made. Yet leaving our prize in the Royal Armoury is not enough anymore, for who will be left to ward it? No, we must make the sacrifice. We, the Doomed Five, must take The Grim to the safest locale we know—far under the mountain, into the darkest caverns of—! Alas, I hesitate to even write of this secret chamber for fear that this book will fall into the wrong hands. Yet I have no choice, for I must leave some trail. I can only hope that our brothers from Rhokkii Pass will find this journal and retrieve Hacktor’s prize—then take it again back where it belongs, into The West. With Rhokkii’s blessing, he will ward his blade in our most valuable treasure trove until searchers can recover it. As a final measure, we Doomed Five have agreed that we will cause an internal avalanche to seal the passageway we take. It will ensure our own deaths, but that will be a blessing for cursed such as we! These then are the last words of Arwin III, the final Kon-Herr Drokka of the Great Akka Mountains. To the Drokka hero who finds this diary, I pray that you follow me to The Deepest Depths of Akka, to The Sacred Lair itself, there to find The Grim, and at last bring it back to glory!

Honestly, I couldn’t have been more pleased after reading Arwin’s last words than if Lucifer himself had lain at my feet like a puppy dog for me to kick! “Oh, what a glorious day!” I exclaimed, giving in to the urge to jump out of my chair and dance – holding Arwin’s book close to my chest, I waltzed around the library to made-up music only I could hear, the hem of my ebon robes swirling around me, the candlelight casting my skeletal shadow across the bookcases like a specter of death. The fire in the hearth flared brighter, as if mirroring my elation, the shadows dancing with me in a macabre celebration.

It was as if the Universe had just opened up and handed me the answer to one of the great questions of my life. At last, I knew for certain where The Grim was to be found! Smiling sweetly, I sashayed my way back to my chair and fell into it, totally at ease, the pazziera leaves rustling softly beneath me. “My precious is waiting for me,” I purred, my voice a low, triumphant hiss. “Sweet victory will be mine when I retrieve The Grim from The Deepest Depths of Akka’s Sacred Lair.”

And then another thought occurred to me, a shadow that crept into my moment of triumph. “Why, by Haaz, but mayhap all of this will knit perfectly with that other nagging task—could it be that I will obtain dreaded Dagaal as well?”

Yet that question quickly soured my mood as images of the Bone Dagger flashed through my mind, its ivory surface etched with runes of annihilation, its purpose a constant threat to my existence. My mood evaporated like mist in the sun, the library’s warmth suddenly feeling oppressive, the candlelight dimming as if sensing my shift in mood.

“What does all this mean?” I queried myself, already knowing the answer, my voice a low growl that echoed through the library, the shadows seeming to shrink back. “The answer is obvious – I cannot delay in contacting Keldar any longer. I need his myz to do my bidding at once!”